Nothing Lasts Forever
by Aichmophobia
Summary: Draco learns a valuable lesson. Nothing Lasts Forever.


I am not sure what my father saw in my mother.

I do not mean, of course, that I cannot believe he could have possibly seen anything of worth in her on the day he chose her - in fact it is quite the opposite. He must have seen something, my father being the type of man to never settle for anything less than perfection, but I do sometimes wonder. How did she look through his eyes? Did he simply see the exterior? Perhaps he only allowed himself to see the smooth golden hair, the slim figure, the defined features.

Or did he see inside, look through her eyes and into her soul, as I often suspected he did to me?

Perhaps the reason he hardly ever looked at her was alike to that which caused me to avoid her whenever possible. I could never make myself look my mother in the eye. Not until she died, when the creature, maybe even soul, hiding inside had fled. Escaped. Even then I felt a strange fear, strong enough that it caused me to turn away. My father closed her eyelids, and kissed her on the forehead. I could not touch her, could not look at her after that. I simply rose and walked from the room, head held high. I prided myself in feeling nothing.

My mother kept a figurine, on a small table near the top of the stairs. The marble staircase boasted our wealth to visitors - drew in the attention of all who were not used to us, left them in awe. But for me it was simply a journey. Every time I was sent up those stairs, even when I felt inclined to climb them of my own will, each step increased the foreboding. I knew that eventually I would have to step around the corner and see that figurine.

As a child I tried to run past with my hands covering my eyes, so that I would not have to look upon the flawless china beauty, the delicate lady's hands clutching at a parasol which protected her from all she felt to hide from, the face half in shadow. But more often than not my hands would move of their own accord. Once more I would be exposed to the figure - ageless, centered innocently on that polished wooden tabletop.

I could never touch it. I suppose the house-elves must have cleaned it, kept that blended skin free of invasive dust, but I could never bring myself to even brush my fingertips against it. I always walked on the other side of the corridor, just in case. No matter how often I washed my hands they would never be clean enough.

As I grew older, and my future loomed larger and nearer than it had when I was a child, the figurine began to anger me. Its stance always the same. Its hands never aching, despite having held up its protective parasol for years. How could it remain so carefree and content, stood in its Victorian gown atop the table, while the world around me was festering? How could it not know how lucky it was - to have one duty and to fulfill it exceptionally each day, never to be scolded or punished. Never to be marked.

Perhaps I began to grow obsessive over my mother's figurine. Perhaps I should have spent more energy on avoiding it as a child, so as not to grow attached to it. Perhaps I should have simply dismissed it as another expensive item of the household - exquisite in its own right, but nothing special. Maybe then I would not have reacted so harshly when I spied one of the house-elves, hands bandaged from some self-punishment, fumbling with it. Running from my bedroom as I had not done since childhood. Such an anger filled me then that the house-elf froze - did not even open its mouth to begin some string of apologies. Useless apologies. It had been taken from its rightful place - perhaps it had even been removed before, out of my sight.

It was ruined.

With a wordless cry, I snatched the figurine from the house-elves hands and held it high in the air before sending it to the ground. It smashed, of course, pieces scattering, revealing the tender white inside. Later I tried to convince myself that it was a perfectly reasonable reflexive action to such an interference from a house-elf, but it was impossible. There had been something indescribable about that insignificant figurine. Perhaps I had even loved it.

My father found me kneeling beside the fragments, crying freely. I felt drunk, like the nights I had joined my classmates at Hogwarts in their enjoyment. I could not care that my father was standing before me - could not care, even, when in his embarassment he sent me to my mother. I could barely hear my mother as she asked what had happened, voice devoid of any sympathy - only fear at what I could have possibly done for my father to send me on to her.

'The house-elf' was all I managed to say, freeing myself from any punishment from my father.

What my mother said next, perched on the edge of my parents' vast bed and eyes burning like gentle poison into my hands, was punishment enough. A phrase which was to stay with me for life, reminding me of itself whenever I dared, foolishly, to hope or dream.

"Nothing lasts forever."

I pressed the piece I had picked up, no longer fearful that my touch would destroy it, into her hand. She closed her fingers around it - the parasol with hands broken off at the wrists still attached - as I turned to walk from the room. Wiping the tears from my face ruthlessly.

Perhaps that is why my father killed her, and why I felt no anger towards him - only understanding. Perhaps the reason he does not cry for her is because, like me now, he knows the truth.

Nothing lasts forever.


End file.
